Creatures From The Pink Lagoon
by tielan
Summary: It's mud. Pink mud. That eats flesh. John knew he shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning... JohnTeyla UST.


**Creature From The Pink Lagoon**

By the time Teyla appears at the top of the hill, John is thigh-deep in pink mud.

He's calling it 'mud' because it's wet and clingy and cool, even if it's the kind of pink that would have gotten him kicked out of the 'Vanderburg Base Secret Sons Club'. Punctuation notwithstanding, it would have been worth John's life to be seen in this kind of pink thirty years ago.

Luckily for him, it's thirty years later, and it's just mud.

Barbie doesn't come in any more strident a pink than this.

Pink mud.

Pink _itchy_ mud.

He didn't mean to slide back into it - he just put a foot wrong as they were scrambling up the hill and somehow ended up knee-deep in mud. And in spite of his best efforts, he's sinking.

"I could do with a hand here," he says, because she's stopped at the ridge and is staring down at him, her eyes large and wide. In a moment, she'll start laughing because, hey, _pink_ mud on John Sheppard.

Instead, she turns back to the ridge and calls something down to Rodney and Ronon who led the charge up the hill. That was, Ronon bounded up it like some kind of dreadlocked Energizer bunny, while Rodney huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf until he got to the top and then went 'whee-whee-whee' all the way down the other side.

John feels peeved for a moment. He's standing here in itchy mud - he reaches down to absently scratch his thigh because the sensation's growing stronger - and Teyla's holding a conversation over his head? Well, out of his earshot, anyway.

And she's stripping out of her flak vest and jacket as she does so.

"Teyla?" John's beginning to feel a little unnerved, and not just because the pink mud on his fingers is beginning to itch. Like Han Solo, he's getting a bad feeling about this.

It only gets worse when she yanks off her boots and socks and begins stripping out of her trousers. Which is, in a word, ironic, because under most other circumstances, he'd be getting a really _good_ feeling about a scenario that involves Teyla taking off her clothes.

The itchiness is beginning to tingle.

"Teyla? What's happening?"

"I have sent them to get the 'jumper. How do you feel, John?" She's down to her underwear as she half-slides down the slope towards him and the pink mud that's definitely growing warmer.

"I'd feel better if the mud wasn't itchy."

"It is not mud," she says as she reaches the bottom of the slope, near where his foot slipped.

Something heavy begins to grow in John's stomach and his hand automatically wipes itself on his vest - but his fingers are still itchy, and he can feel the goo clinging heavily to the material. "What is it?"

His hands reach for hers as she takes one careful step into the goo and sinks to the middle of her calf. Her hands close around his fingers, a strong grip and cool where his goo-smeared skin is feeling unpleasantly warm and itchy. "It is a parasite," she says.

"A _parasite_?" John stares at her, then looks down at the itchy pink mud that has suddenly taken on a very menacing shade. He forces himself to take slow deep breaths, to stay calm and start getting out of the situation - and the ooze. "What's it doing?"

"You do not wish to know." Teyla starts to pull and he tries to help her, but it's as though the goo has suddenly developed hands and is holding him firmly in its grip.

His breath comes harsh and fast and his legs are beginning to burn as he struggles his way out. It's like being in a hot steambath, steadily building to scalding, and he's beginning to pant, his heart struggling against the heat.

But he keeps his eyes on Teyla, on the curve of her jaw and the tightness around her eyes. And something in him clutches hold of the fact that this woman has lived hard in a life that John wouldn't wish on anyone, but she's still here and fighting, and she's got a grip on him like a woman in labour.

The heat is like tiny stabbing pains in his legs and calves, cramping his muscles. It's Teyla's strength that hauls them out and sprawls them in the dirt of the path, to lie there, panting.

Getting out of the ooze cools his legs for a moment, lying on a half-naked Teyla distracts him, but the burning comes back with the prickling sensation, the pointed silver edges of pins-and-needles in his flesh. He grunts.

"You must take off your clothes, John. It will slow the absorption rate."

In spite of the growing tingle, he manages something like a laugh. "Can't get me out of them any other way, Teyla?"

Her eyes flash once, then she grins - and gooses him lightly. "Laura says that opportunity should be seized whenever it presents itself."

"What you're seizing isn't opportunity."

This time, she laughs and rolls him off onto his back, climbing up from the dirt and hauling him upright. "Take your clothes off, John. It will hurt less."

He could make so many retorts in answer to that, but the burning's replacing the pins and needles again, and the weave of his trousers is beginning to chafe.

"What was it doing to me?" John yanks off the flak vest and tosses it aside.

"Eating your flesh."

Her words halt him in the act of pulling off his jacket. Everything stops - except his heart, which picks up the pace like a herd driven to thundering pace. All along his skin, he swears he can suddenly feel tiny, tiny teeth in his flesh - even if logic says it's stupid, he can _feel_ it. "And you decided to tell me this _now_?"

"Would it have helped to tell you when you were in the middle of it?" She's crouched down and is picking at his goo-covered laces.

It only then occurs to him that if the goo hurts like a bitch to him, then it's probably hurting Teyla too - and she's got more skin exposed than him. "Leave them," he orders. "I'll do it myself."

She ignores him of course. Her hands grip the sticky heel of his boot and she says only, "Pull."

His foot comes free with a squelch. It's mostly dry and pain-free - John ties his boots tight - but his ankles are burning.

"Teyla--"

"Undress now and you will get your explanation."

He'd argue, but his skin's beginning to feel really raw and painful and he wants out of his shirt. Maybe it's just his imagination but...

_Holy shit._

He stares at the backs of his hands. It's not his imagination. He looks like someone scalded him with a bucket of boiling water - deep red patches that are raw enough to seep but not quite deep enough to bleed.

"We call it the _hathrami_," Teyla says, yanking off the other boot and standing. "Do not take this the wrong way, John, but we must get you out of your trousers now."

He's feeling more than a little wobbly when he steps out of his trousers and sees his legs. The all-over burning's almost under control and the air is cooling at least, but the sight of his skin makes him sick. "It's still tingling."

"The _hathrami_ are still in your body. That is why I sent Rodney and Ronon for the 'jumper."

John stares at her, feeling more than a little exposed with his skin all raw. "They're still _in_ me?"

She indicates his boxer shorts. "If you do not wish to grow raw in certain delicate parts of your body, then I strongly suggest you remove those."

_Shit._

Shame wars momentarily against self-preservation. It's a _very_ momentary hesitation and is assisted by the fact that Teyla is heading for the slope and the ridge, her bare feet scraping in the dirt.

The boxers are carefully slid off, and John begins to reach down to cover himself before he realises his hands have goo residue on them. Not something he wants on his privates, thank you. Parts of his body are burning, at the edge of uncomfortable and rapidly going over.

Teyla's footsteps come back, and her voice lilts a little as she passes him her jacket. "If you need to feel less exposed..."

"Thanks." He covers up. It really helps, if only mentally. Then, to take his mind off the burning sensation all over his body - is it spreading? - John asks, "Doesn't it hurt you?"

She's standing there, one goo-smeared hand resting on her hip with no sign of reddening. Her pose is loose - no tension, no pain, and when she looks at him, there's sympathy in her eyes.

"No," she says. "The _hathrami_ do not react to females the way they do to males. It is...uncomfortable for us, but not painful. Not immediately." Her profile is turned to John and she's scanning the horizon.

"You sent them away. Rodney and Ronon, I mean."

Her glance is quick and dark. "Yes. They will bring the 'jumper to us." Cool hands close around his fingers, a smooth, firm grip against his burning skin. Where she presses, the heat abates. "How bad is it?"

"I'm managing." The pain's definitely heating up, and perhaps she sees something of it in his expression.

"Do you want...?" She hesitates and with her eyes never leaving his, she places a hand carefully on the top of his thigh.

He nearly sighs in relief at the cool that spreads out along her fingers, and he moves his thigh so it's pressing against her legs. Goo or not, it's as relieving as an orgasm, the pure chilly pleasure of her skin against his. But there's a distant whining noise on the horizon - the 'jumper coming to pick them up - and John's abruptly conscious that he's naked and itchy, and Teyla's stripped down to her underwear.

But she doesn't step away from him, so Rodney and Ronon are greeted with the sight of them entwined in what might look like an intimate embrace but is really for the sake of John's burning legs.

"The water cask," is her first order to Ronon as the 'jumper door opens. "And the alcohol stash."

"Whoa." John nearly grabs her as she moves away, but restrains himself. She's not his personal ice-pack. "Why the alcohol?"

Teyla's stepped back as Ronon brings out the water cask. "Because _hathrami_ do not survive in alcohol-ridden environments. Keep back," she tells Rodney as he pauses on the ramp, having set the 'jumper down.

"What? What's wrong? Other than that he's covered in pink goo. Looks good, Sheppard. Quite your colour."

"Ha-ha, Rodney," John tells him, turning so the 'burns' on his thighs show clearly. A moment later, a flask is pushed into his hand by Ronon.

"Enjoy. It's pink, flesh-eating goo," Ronon tells Rodney with rough malice in his voice.

That stops Rodney dead. "Flesh-eating--?"

"Contact Atlantis." Teyla's pouring water out . "Let them know what has happened."

Rodney doesn't move, looking nervously at John. "So, uh, is he gonna die?"

"I am sure that someday he will," she says without looking up from the water she's pouring out into a bucket. "However, this organism will merely consume him over the next couple of hours if he does not drink that alcohol now. Upon our return, we should run through decontamination - and please request that only female personnel attend to us. The organism kills more men than women."

"Only female personnel?"

"Kills?"

"I don't know what you're complaining about," Rodney sniffs. "You get to get drunk and have female personnel attend you!"

"I'll swap. You can have the flesh-eating organisms on you and I'll stand to one side and mock you." The silver flask is smooth beneath his fingers - not as cooling as Teyla's skin, but it eases the pain in his fingers a little. His legs are burning again, and the pain is getting hard enough that he's having trouble breathing. John sniffs carefully at the open flask. The fumes rising from the mouth are dizzying and the pain is momentarily forgotten in the wafting scent. "Wait, is this Zelenka's moonshine?"

"Yep." Ronon's grin is positively evil.

"This stuff is rotgut." John's tried it before and swore never again.

"That stuff will save your life," says Teyla calmly. "Drink it, John."

"All of it?"

"Well," her mouth twitches as she begins rinsing off her legs with the water and some rag-cloths that Ronon tossed to her, "I would appreciate if you would leave a little for me."

"Want first swig?"

"I have other things to do - including cleaning you off."

He pauses. The idea of getting a spongebath by Teyla has its attractions - in a fantasy universe where she can't kick his ass for getting fresh. He's not so sure about the reality of it - especially if he's going to be getting drunk on rotgut at the same time. He knows what he's like when his inhibitions come down. One of the reasons he doesn't often let them down. "Uh... You know, I can do that myself."

Ronon taps the flask. "Drink it. Now."

"Or what? You'll pour it down my throat?"

"Might have to. Don't want the _hathrami_ to spread."

John glares at everyone - even Teyla, who's started wiping goo off his fingers - and takes a swig of the rotgut. It sears his throat with convulsive fire, liquid heat that slips down his gullet and burns his belly. Burning on the inside to match the burning on the outside.

"Oh, God," he splutters. He remembered how vicious the stuff was, but not the exact, tonsil-cleansing taste of it. Zelenka's fault, of course. It's the Slavic fondness for alcohol that can destroy your tastebuds at first touch.

"Keep drinking," says Teyla.

"If I keep drinking, I won't have a throat to drink this stuff much longer," he warns her.

"Better no throat than no legs," comes her rejoinder, sweetly malicious.

She has a point. He thinks the pain in his legs might be fading a little. And for that, John takes another swig and another. In gulps and splutters, he gets the alcohol down.

Maybe it's the sensation of getting drunk, maybe it's the relief from the pain as the _hathrami_ die off, but the world takes on blurry haze, the lake of pink goo blending into the white dust of the hills, blending into the blanket they fling around his shoulders, blending into the darkness of the 'jumper interior.

His next clear thought is that his legs feel like raw meat.

John's in Atlantis, in one of the beds, and he aches rather than burns. His legs are cool but still sore, and his head...

Damn Zelenka and his rotgut. The stuff is deadly.

Damn pink goo, too.

He takes a deep breath and is about to call out when Teyla peers around the doorjamb. "He is awake," she calls back into the other room, then comes in with a carry bag over her shoulder, moving stiffly. "How do you feel?"

"I have a hangover."

She coughs lightly. "Radek's alcohol is rather...potent. But I was referring more to your legs, John."

"What was that stuff? _Hathami_?"

"_Hathrami_," Teyla says.

"It seems to be some kind of amoebic lifeform that collects in groups," says Keller mildly. "Uses testosterone in its breeding process, but feeds generally on flesh. You're lucky that Teyla knew what to do about it, or your legs would be in much worse condition than they are."

"Oh, they feel bad enough," John mutters. But he looks over at Teyla, who's sitting on the next bed over, the bandages around her legs obvious beneath her slit-skirts. "Thanks for the rescue."

"You are welcome," she says, smiling. "Even if you were a friendly drunk."

Keller makes a noise that might be a giggle but stifles it beneath a cough when John eyes her. "Um. Yes. So, your feet are okay from the ankle down - this _hathrami_ didn't get through your socks to your shoes - but you've got scabs all up and down your legs. There's no infection that we can see, but we've got an antiseptic cream that needs to be smeared along your legs... You can probably do that yourself."

"Good to hear it. So when do I get out of here?"

"I think another day would be best. Let those scabs close over and then we'll see." Keller makes a few notes on her pad, flashes a smile at Teyla and walks out.

Silence falls before John dares to ask. "Just _how_ friendly a drunk was I?"

"Friendly enough." Laughter bubbles up in her eyes at his expression. "You did not compromise yourself, John. You were just a little...clingy."

He seems to have a habit of being 'clingy' with Teyla when he's not himself. This time seems to have been better than last time - the Iratus virus - but he's still a little embarrassed. Now that she's mentioned it, he has vague recollections of sitting in the 'jumper cargo section next to her, a blanket wrapped around his nether regions, with his head snugged into her throat.

He clears his throat. "I'd just like to say that..."

"Under other circumstances, you would not have done it, John. I know." Teyla pulls her bag around and begins fishing through it. "I brought your PDA for you to entertain yourself. Ronon sent some magazines, and Rodney said he will come by later to set up your laptop for golf..."

"Teyla?"

She pauses and looks up. "John."

John coughs a little. "I actually wanted to say that if I made you uncomfortable - with the clinginess - I'm sorry."

This time, the silence stretches a little longer as Teyla tilts her head to regard him. "You are not apologising for being friendly."

"I thought I did."

"No. You apologised for any discomfort I felt."

He frowns. "Aren't they the same thing?"

"You might apologise for causing me discomfort while not regretting your actions at all."

"Oh." John hesitates, uncertainty churning through him. "Do you want me to apologise for--"

Her mouth twitches. "I do not think that will be necessary, John."

"Good." He watches her cheeks take on a pinkish tint; his own cheeks are also flaming. "So," he says lightly, as much to make noise as to move things on. "What else did you bring me?"

"Other than the PDA?"

"Other than the PDA."

She smiles - a wicked glint of teeth and eyes that he immediately distrusts - and pulls out a pink sheet of paper. It's the same pink as the mud - violent Barbie doll pink - and on it are words picked out in silver glitter, _Get better, Colonel!_

John eyes it, then lifts his gaze to an innocent-looking Teyla. "So," he asks conversationally, "do I kill Rodney or Cadman first?"

Teyla just laughs as she affixes it to the wall opposite his bed.

- **fin** -


End file.
